"Hidden Walls"

 

THE APARTMENT ARGUMENT

“Eli, you look like you’re packing for the apocalypse.”

Zane Faulkner lounged lazily on the arm of a chair, watching with amusement as Eli attempted to close an overstuffed suitcase. The poor man nearly sat on it, grunting with effort.

“It’s called preparation,” Eli snapped. “Unlike you, who thinks a single overcoat and smug sarcasm are enough for survival.”

Zane smoothed the lapel of his black coat, a sly grin flickering. “My dear Eli, this ‘smug sarcasm’ has kept me alive longer than most people’s entire wardrobes.”

“Sometimes I wonder why I even put up with you,” Eli muttered, tugging at the zipper.

“Because,” Zane replied with mock seriousness, “deep down you admire me.”

Eli threw him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “If by admire you mean tolerate with deep regret, then yes.”

Their playful quarrel echoed through the apartment. Outside, fog clung to the city like a heavy blanket. Tonight they would leave for the countryside guest house where, according to Zane’s former professor, “peaceful rest” awaited. But peace rarely followed Zane Faulkner.

ARRIVAL AT THE GUEST HOUSE

The drive through fog-wrapped hills ended at a secluded building. The guest house stood hunched against the night, wooden beams weathered, shutters rattling faintly in the wind. A lantern swayed on the porch, its glow faint, like the last breath of a candle.

“Charming,” Eli muttered. “The perfect place to get murdered in our sleep.”

Zane tilted his head, eyes scanning every crack. “Charming indeed. I rather like it.”

Inside, the caretaker appeared: Mr. Holloway, tall, stiff-backed, his face carved in permanent sternness. His words were slow, deliberate. “Welcome. Dinner at eight. Please remain indoors after nightfall. The house… creaks.”

The lounge smelled of pinewood and something older—dust and memory. A grandfather clock ticked loudly, its beat too strong, almost theatrical. Portraits hung on the walls, their faded eyes following every step.

Around the lounge sat the other guests:

A nervous young woman clutching a book too tightly.

An elderly couple whispering in low, urgent tones.

A man in a gray suit, polishing his glasses again and again.

Every one of them seemed wrapped in their own secrets.

THE FIRST NIGHT

Dinner was silent, broken only by the tick of the clock. Even cutlery seemed hesitant. The young woman barely touched her plate. The elderly man coughed violently now and then. The man in the suit never looked up.

Zane leaned toward Eli and whispered, “Such delightful company. It’s like dining with statues.”

Eli muttered back, “Statues are less creepy.”

When dinner ended, Mr. Holloway’s warning deepened. “Stay in your rooms. The house groans with age. Best not to listen too closely.”

Later, in his narrow bed, Eli whispered through the thin wall, “Zane?”

“Yes, Eli?”

“Do you hear that creaking?”

Zane smiled faintly into the darkness. “Of course. This house is alive in its own way.”

THE DISCOVERY

Morning shattered with a scream. Guests rushed down the hallway to find the nervous young woman dead in her bed. Her eyes stared blankly, a faint bruise circling her neck. No overturned furniture, no signs of struggle.

“She—she was fine last night!” one guest stammered.

Mr. Holloway’s face hardened. “Until the authorities arrive, no one leaves.”

Zane crouched beside the bed, his sharp gaze dancing over the scene. He did not touch the bruise, only studied it. “Too faint for strangulation. Yet deliberate. Someone applied precise pressure.”

Eli paled. “You’re saying she was murdered?”

“Indeed,” Zane murmured, eyes gleaming.

THE GUESTS UNDER QUESTION

Each guest gave their account:

The elderly couple claimed to be here for health, though their whispered quarrels hinted otherwise.

The man in the suit said he was a historian, but avoided every personal question.

Mr. Holloway insisted he had been in his office all night.

Zane’s calm voice cut through their protests. “Curious, isn’t it? Everyone has a story. Yet none of them fit comfortably together.”

Eli tugged at his sleeve. “Zane, this is serious. Shouldn’t we wait for the police?”

Zane’s smirk flickered. “And deprive myself of the fun? Absolutely not.”

THE STRANGE CLUES

The house began to whisper its secrets:

Behind the grandfather clock, Zane found faint scratches, as though a panel had been moved recently.

In the dead woman’s book, one page had been torn out, the edge ragged.

Near her pillow lingered a faint bitter scent, like almonds.

“Poison?” Eli asked, voice low.

“Not exactly,” Zane mused. “Something more subtle. More practiced.”

THE TENSION DEEPENS

That night, thunder rolled. Guests gathered in the lounge, silence as heavy as the storm.

Eli whispered, “Zane, aren’t you frightened? Two nights here and I feel like the walls themselves are listening.”

Zane’s eyes lingered on the portraits. “Fear clouds the mind. Listen carefully and you’ll hear the truth in the cracks.”

“You’re insane,” Eli muttered.

“Possibly,” Zane said with a smile.

LYRA ARRIVES

The front door creaked open. Rain swept in around a young woman—Lyra. Her hair clung damp against her cheeks, her eyes sharp with both fire and concern.

She spotted Zane immediately. “You didn’t tell me you were chasing mysteries again.”

Zane’s grin widened. “Would you have come if I had?”

Lyra scoffed, though a faint smile betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”

Eli groaned. “Perfect. Now she’s here too. Just what we needed in this madhouse.”

SECOND DEATH

Sometime after midnight, another scream broke. This time in the library. The historian lay slumped over a desk, his glasses shattered, a chess piece clutched in his stiffening hand.

Lyra gasped. “Two deaths in two days? This can’t be chance.”

Zane’s gaze flickered, unsettled for once. “No, not chance. A design. But the pattern eludes me—for now.”

Eli’s voice trembled. “Even you don’t know?”

Zane gave no answer.

THE WHISPERS IN THE WALLS

Later, as rain hammered the roof, faint whispers echoed through the guest house. Not the wind—something human.

Eli pressed against a wall, terrified. “That’s not normal. Tell me that’s not normal.”

Zane tapped the panel gently. Hollow. He pressed again, listening. “There are spaces behind these walls. Secret places.”

Lyra crossed her arms. “Secret passages? In a guest house?”

Zane’s smile was thin, dangerous. “Every house hides something, Lyra. This one just whispers louder.”

THE HIDDEN ROOM

Guided by the whispers, Zane pried open a loosened panel near the corridor. Eli protested, Lyra muttered curses, but both followed him inside.

A narrow passage stretched into darkness, stale air thick with dust. At the end, they found a cramped hidden room.

On a wooden table lay journals, yellowed with age. Some pages described names and dates—records of people who had once stayed here. Each entry ended abruptly, unfinished.

Among them were keys. Dozens of old keys, labeled with room numbers, yet some numbers did not exist in the current layout of the house.

Lyra frowned. “Keys for rooms that aren’t here anymore?”

Zane’s eyes narrowed, sharp with curiosity. “Or rooms that were bricked up, concealed. Hidden walls.”

Eli shivered. “You mean there are places in this house no one knows about?”

Zane’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Precisely. And our murderer knows them well.”

THE UNEASY ALLIANCE

The hidden room’s stale air clung to their clothes as they returned to the lounge. Eli was pale, muttering under his breath. “Keys to rooms that don’t exist… journals of guests that just stop… this place is cursed, Zane. We should leave before we’re next.”

Zane brushed dust from his coat with deliberate calm. “If we leave, the truth remains buried. And you know how I despise buried truths.”

Lyra crossed her arms, but her eyes betrayed curiosity. “So what now? Two bodies, secret rooms, and a caretaker who seems far too composed.”

“Now,” Zane said softly, “we listen. Every house speaks—this one merely uses whispers instead of words.”

THE THIRD CLUE

In the gray morning light, Zane returned to the library where the historian had died. Eli trailed nervously, flashlight in hand. Lyra inspected the shelves with sharp eyes.

Zane studied the chess piece clenched in the man’s hand. A black bishop. He placed it on the board nearby, noticing the arrangement was deliberate: the game unfinished, yet oddly symmetrical.

Lyra frowned. “A message?”

“Indeed,” Zane murmured. “Our historian was no random victim. He discovered something—perhaps too much. His killer silenced him before he could finish the move.”

Eli swallowed hard. “And the girl? What about her?”

Zane tapped the board gently. “Connected. Two pieces of the same puzzle.”

THE MAP BEHIND THE CLOCK

That evening, when thunder rolled once again, Zane examined the grandfather clock. He pressed the scratched panel, revealing another hollow. Inside was a folded piece of parchment.

A map. Crude, yellowed, showing the layout of the house—but with corridors and rooms missing from the current structure.

Lyra’s breath caught. “There really were more rooms.”

“Precisely,” Zane said. “Walled up, forgotten. Yet the keys remain. Our murderer navigates them like a spider in its web.”

Eli’s voice trembled. “Meaning he—or she—can appear anywhere, vanish anywhere. No one’s safe.”

Zane’s smirk flickered faintly. “Except us, dear Eli. Danger has always been my favorite companion.”

THE SECRET JOURNAL

Among the journals from the hidden room, one bore fresh ink. Unlike the others, its handwriting was recent. Zane read aloud:

“The girl suspects too much. She listens at doors. She reads the names I tried to erase. Tonight she will sleep, and tomorrow the house will be quieter.”

Lyra’s hand flew to her mouth. “That was about the first victim.”

Eli nearly dropped the flashlight. “You mean—the killer wrote this? Here?!”

Zane closed the book softly. “Yes. Which means our murderer hides among us still. And grows careless.”

THE CARETAKER’S LIE

That night, Zane confronted Mr. Holloway in the lounge. The caretaker’s hands were steady, but his eyes flickered once, betraying nerves.

“You claimed to be in your office,” Zane said evenly, “yet the ink in this journal matches the pen on your desk.”

Gasps filled the room as the other guests turned.

Holloway’s jaw tightened. “You accuse me without proof.”

“Not accusation,” Zane replied calmly, “observation. You know this house’s bones. You warned us not to wander. You spoke as though the walls themselves were alive. Because you use them.”

Holloway’s silence spoke louder than denial.

THE TRAP

But Zane wasn’t satisfied. Something itched at the edge of his mind. Too neat, too simple. Holloway was suspicious, yes, but the pattern stretched deeper.

That evening, he devised a trap. He gathered the guests in the lounge under the guise of protection. Then, quietly, he left the chessboard in the library, a single piece moved into a vulnerable position.

Hours later, a creak echoed. Zane waited in the shadows. A figure entered the library, reaching for the board—attempting to finish the game the historian had left unfinished.

It wasn’t Holloway.

It was the elderly woman.

THE CONFESSION BEGINS

When confronted, she trembled, but her eyes gleamed with something sharp, something hidden for years. “He knew,” she whispered. “That meddling historian knew our past. He recognized my husband’s name in those cursed journals. He would have ruined everything.”

Lyra’s eyes widened. “Your past?”

The woman’s lips twisted. “We stayed here once, decades ago. We thought no one remembered. But the journals did. They recorded every guest… even those who never left. My husband and I… we helped keep the secret.”

Eli shuddered. “You mean—you killed before?”

Her silence was answer enough.

THE FINAL REVEAL

But Zane shook his head. “Not quite. You killed the historian, yes. But the girl? No. That was someone else.”

The room froze. All eyes turned.

Zane moved to the fireplace, pulling from behind the mantle a torn page he had discovered earlier. On it was a list of names, dates, each crossed out except one—the young woman’s.

He turned toward the elderly man, her husband. “It was you. You silenced her because she saw too much, read too deeply. She realized this guest house was never meant for lodging—it was meant for burial. Every missing guest, every unfinished journal—they ended behind these walls.”

The old man’s face crumpled. “She wouldn’t stop asking questions. She would have exposed us all.”

Eli gasped. Lyra clenched her fists.

Zane’s voice was calm, cold as glass. “So you chose murder as silence.”

THE POLICE ARRIVE

When authorities finally came through the storm, they found two elderly murderers bound by their own secrets. The hidden rooms were opened—bricked corridors revealing skeletons, long forgotten. The journals told the rest: a legacy of vanished travelers, concealed beneath layers of dust and stone.

Eli refused to enter those walls, muttering prayers under his breath. Lyra, though shaken, stood firm beside Zane, her eyes glimmering with unspoken admiration.

The guest house was sealed. Its future ended in chains and shadow.

THE FINAL WORDS

Later, as dawn broke over the fog, Eli slumped on the porch steps. “I’ll never sleep in a guest house again. Ever. Not even a modern one with Wi-Fi.”

Lyra smirked faintly. “You never sleep anyway. Too busy worrying.”

Zane stepped out, coat collar turned against the morning chill, eyes fixed on the fading silhouette of the house. His smile was faint, tinged with melancholy.

“Walls remember,” he said softly. “They whisper when we try to forget. And in their silence, they keep the truth alive until someone listens.”

He turned, his expression once again light, sly. “Shall we head home, Eli? Or do you wish to book another stay?”

Eli nearly collapsed. “Over my dead body.”

Zane chuckled, the sound light against the heavy dawn. And with that, they left the guest house and its hidden walls behind—though the whispers lingered, faint as memory.